


Longing

by the_music_and_the_mirror



Series: What Happens in Wakanda . . . [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Dissociation, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Memories, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 01:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_music_and_the_mirror/pseuds/the_music_and_the_mirror
Summary: In which recovery happens the old-fashioned way.





	1. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet our heros

Coming out of cryostasis is the same every time. He remembers that, at least. It’s the cold that always hits him first, and for a moment he’s back at the bottom of the ravine, half-buried in snow stained red, fresh flurries blowing around him. Fear comes next, terror really, as bleary snowflakes resolve themselves into bright lights reflecting off round spectacles.  And finally, pain. Agony exploding like white-hot flashbulbs behind his eyes as the bone saw slices into his arm.

He gasps and sits bolt upright, nearly toppling sideways off the bed when his left arm fails to brace him.

_What?_

A hand catches him by the shoulder, pushes him gently upright.  Dull ache.

A voice in his ear, “Hey, woah. Take it easy.  Just breathe.”

He tries, and gets it after a few shaky gasps. Tries to gather his thoughts as his eyes slowly adjust to the dim lighting.  No glaring surgical lamps after all, just a low ambient glow lending warmth to the room. That voice again, friendly and familiar, “There, that’s better. How you feeling, buddy?”  

_Buddy?  That doesn’t sound . . ._

_The room spins.  Damp stone walls reflect a sickly greenish light._

_Flash of blond bangs, flash of worried blue eyes . . ._

 “S-Steve?”

 “Hey, Buck.”

 Buck.

Bucky.

_Oh._

He takes another long breath, rubbing his hand across his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Migraine’s starting, that’s another fun part to look forward to.  Almost forgot about that for a second. Looks up at the concerned face hovering over him.

“What are you . . . Doing here?”

Steve’s brow furrows a little.  “Where, Wakanda?”

_Wakanda? Wh . . .?_

Scattered fragments of memory gradually surface as he looks around the room and Steve says, “Well, from what Shuri says, cyro can be kind of disorienting and they thought it might help to wake up to a familiar face.”

_Shuri says . . ._

_Cryo . . ._

_Oh. Right._

It’s coming together now, finally.

His throat is dry, painfully so, but he manages a hoarse query,“So, if I’m awake, does that mean they found a . . . cure? Already?  That was . . . quick?”

Steve shifts his weight a little, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.  Avoiding eye contact. “Well, not exactly. Kind of. I’m probably not the right person to explain it.  For now we’re just supposed to see about getting you on your feet and, when you’re up for it, out of the med center and to your own quarters.”

Bucky processes this silently, eyes down.  Swallows hard, or tries. Coughs a bit. Steve reaches over and hands him a glass with instructions to sip slowly.  The water helps, but he is suddenly very tired, and very aware that his left side is out of balance with his right. He forces himself not to look, not to think about it.  Not now. Not yet. Instead, sinks back down on the hospital bed, curls inward.

_Cold . . ._

Steve tugs the blanket back up over his friend, pats him gently on the shoulder.

“Ok, just rest for now.  I’ll be back later to check on you.”

He wakes up to wind whistling in his ears, the roar of icy air rushing past drowning out the hammer of wheels on the tracks, Steve shouting something.  He’s clinging to the side of the train car, reaching for Steve’s outstretched hand. Metal screams, or maybe it’s him screaming. Screaming as he falls . . .

. . . and lands on the cold tiles of the hospital room floor. Lands hard on his left shoulder, which hurts enough to snap him out of the nightmare and back to reality.  A small, sarcastic part of him wonders whether it’s an improvement. Manages to push himself up to a sitting position, leans his head back against the bed and catches his breath.

_Right, that’s why I gave up sleeping on the couch and stuck with the mattress.  Shorter fall._

The door chimes and hisses open. Steve takes a step into the room before jerking to an abrupt halt at the sight of his best friend half-sitting, half-laying on the floor.

“Hey . . . Oh, jeez.  Hey. Hey are you OK?”

Bucky drags himself to his feet, biting back a groan.

“Fine. Nightmare,” he grunts instead. “Happens a lot.  I think I was getting used to it.”

Steve doesn’t have anything to say to that, just stands there looking pained.  Bucky takes the opportunity to make his way, hobbling slightly on legs still stiff from cryo freeze, the few steps across the room to the bathroom.  Splashes some water on his face and makes the mistake of glancing up into the mirror. The face that stares back at him might as well belong to someone else.  He turns away and shuffles back into the main room. Clean clothes are folded neatly at the foot of the bed, waiting for him. Steve has retreated to the doorway.

“Take your time.  Just c’mon out when you’re ready and I’ll show you from there.”  And with that, the door hisses and he’s gone.

_C’mon . . .out? Just like that?_

A few minutes later, the door hisses again and, now fully dressed in soft cotton pants, tshirt, and rubber-soled slip-on shoes, he steps out into a brightly-lit hallway.  Steve’s waiting, as promised, leaning casually up against a wall decorated with bold triangular patterns. He extends a hand, offering a tall plastic tumbler full of some kind of thick, milky substance.

“Here, Shuri says to drink this.  Nutrient shake. No solid food for the first couple days out of cryo.”

Bucky accepts the drink, which smells like wet cardboard and tastes like cream of shredded wheat slurry.  Sips at it half-heartedly as Steve leads the way through a labyrinth of hallways, all well-lit and beautifully decorated with what Bucky decides must be tribal designs.

“Where are we, anyway?” He asks, unable to completely contain his curiosity.  Or maybe it’s lingering confusion. Anyway, maybe talking will take his mind off of whatever it is he’s drinking. Hopefully.

Steve glances over his shoulder, “Wakanda.  You know.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “Yes, thank you, I do actually remember that part.  Where, specifically, are we?”

Steve can’t quite hide his grin.  As long as he’s being sarcastic, some spark of the old Bucky is still alive. “Capital city - they call it the Golden City.  Royal palace. Just left the med center, which is technically part of Shuri’s lab, I think. Heading for living quarters. Not a long walk, thought you might like to stretch your legs.”

“ . . . Living . . . ?”

“Yeah.  It’s . . . Beautiful, actually.  Amazing. We’re T’Challa’s guests here.  Everyone is so nice - they all want to help.”

“Guests,” Bucky says flatly.

Steve stops and half-turns.  “Refugees, maybe. But not prisoners.  You can come and go as you like.”

“As long as I don’t try to leave Wakanda.”

“Well . . . Yes.  For now. But I’m working on that - we’re working on that. I told you, everyone wants to help.”  Steve starts walking again.

Bucky sighs softly, can’t keep a bitter note out of his voice. “What about you? Captain America a refugee too?”

Steve doesn’t respond to that, which is all the answer Bucky needs.

 

****

 

In short order, they arrive in front of another door.  Steve waves it open and gestures for Bucky to follow him inside.  It’s an apartment. A short, angled hallway leads in one direction to an open kitchen divided from a living area by a counter island.  In the other direction, bedroom and bath. Hardwood floors. Understated, tasteful decoration in neutral tones. Both kitchen and living area have floor to ceiling windows looking out over the capital city.  Bucky lets out a low, impressed whistle.

“OK, as far as hideouts go, this is a little nicer than Romania.”

Steve snorts. “And DC.  And Brooklyn. This is nicer than anywhere either of us have ever seen, Buck, hideout or otherwise.  I’ll leave you to look around, get settled. I’m right across the hall, actually - just have your AI page me if you need anything.”

Bucky is still trying to take it all in.  “AI?”

“Right,” Steve explains.  “Wakandan tech is really something else.  I’m still getting used to it but Shuri’s got this whole thing rigged up.  You just . . . Ask. Out loud. For whatever you want. Anyway. I’ll let you guys get acquainted.”

Steve’s halfway out the door when he turns back, “Oops, almost forgot the most important part.  Tomorrow morning, ten AM. You’re supposed to meet with Shuri. She’s got a plan to, uh, to help you.  I’ll come get you at nine-thirty, take you up there, ok?”

_OK? It’s a . . . choice?_

Bucky just stares at him, confused, before realizing he’s supposed to say something in reply. “OK.  Tomorrow. Nine-thirty.”

Steve nods, departs.  The door hisses shut and he’s alone.  Whether it’s programming or just natural paranoia he’s not sure and he doesn’t bother questioning it, but Bucky spends the next hour sweeping the apartment for bugs.  Comes up completely empty, which doesn’t actually make him feel any better, but at least it gives him a nice excuse to snoop through all the drawers and cabinets. They’ve really thought of everything.  Kitchen fully equipped with dishes, silverware, pots, pans and utensils. He leaves the nutrient shake tumbler in the sink and moves on to the bedroom and washroom. Clean clothes in the wardrobe, jeans, t-shirts, a hoodie hanging neatly in the closet. Underwear, electric razor, even a toothbrush.  The one thing that seems to be missing is any kind of food whatsoever, although the idea of food makes his stomach turn over. He’ll figure that out later. For now, a shower is sounding really good. Even after two years, the novelty of hot water and bar, not powdered, soap hasn’t worn off.

_Tomorrow. Nine-thirty.  What time is it, anyway?  What day is it? What year, for that matter?_

He doesn’t realize he said it out loud until a soft, female voice replies, “Local time is now 2140, nine-forty in the evening on April 26, 2017.”

It’s a testament to seventy years of training that he doesn’t jump right out of his skin.

Nevertheless, the voice says, “I apologize for startling you, Sergeant Barnes.”

_What the hell?_

“Ok, lets get that out of the way.  Barnes died at the bottom of a ravine in 1944.  Dunno exactly what crawled out but right now I’m Bucky.  Just Bucky.”

Even as he says it, that quiet voice in the back of his head reminds him that he just slept through his hundredth birthday.  

_What?_

A soft chime brings him back to reality; he decides to interpret it as some kind of electronic acknowledgment. Maybe he came across a bit more harsh than absolutely necessary.  He tries again.

“You’re the AI Steve mentioned?  Do you have a . . . Name? Designation?  Something I’m supposed to call you?

A different chime, tinkling, like the bubbling of a brook.  “You may call me AIDA. My name means caretaker and that is my function.”

Her voice doesn’t sound electronic.  It makes him think of the smell of cinnamon and autumn leaves; it’s soothing and pleasant.  There is, however, one part that’s still making him more than a little uncomfortable with the arrangement.  That annoying little voice is back again, wondering why he even cares. He ignores it.

“Uh . . . AIDA.  I appreciate the assistance and I don’t want to sound rude but . . . are you always watching? Listening?  Can I deactivate you or . . . something?”

“I have no wish to be intrusive, Bucky.  You need only ask and I will withdraw. I will not reactivate until called upon.”

“OK, thanks.  Good to know. Do you think you could, uh, make yourself scarce for a little bit, then?  I’ve been in stasis for a while and it would be nice if all of Wakanda couldn’t smell me coming.”

The acknowledgment chime, and then silence.

He stays in the shower as long as he can, letting the hot water melt the last of the cryofreeze from his stiff muscles.  Decides he’s not up for shaving just yet, not quite ready to face himself in the mirror again. Instead he pads back into the kitchen, barefoot, and asks, “AIDA?  You there?”

Chime.  “How may I assist you?”

“Well, I guess I’m not allowed solid food yet but . . .”

“I believe you will find a nutrient shake in the refrigerator.”

_Great._

“Thanks.”

He’s hungrier than he thought, because he finishes it without gagging.  Almost immediately, a wave of exhaustion washes over him. He’s too tired to drag the mattress onto the floor, falls asleep curled up under a blanket on the couch instead.  AIDA lowers the lights to near-blackness but he doesn’t notice - he’s already out.

He sleeps, and does not dream.

Awakens to sunlight streaming through the windows.  Stretches, back and shoulders stiff from spending the night on the couch, but feeling more well-rested than he has in . . . How long?

 _“_ What’s in those shakes, anyway?”

“Good morning, Bucky.  I trust you slept well?” AIDA inquires.

“Presumably you knew that would happen?” he mutters sarcastically.

“Captain Rogers will arrive in thirty minutes.”

He snorts a little, “So they let him keep the rank?  That’s nice.”

Another long shower, a half-hearted attempt at shaving.  Hard to do with one hand and while trying to avoid the reflection of your own eyes, not to mention whatever remains of your left shoulder, in the mirror.  Slips into jeans, a long-sleeved jersey shirt, the hoodie. Tries his best to ignore the empty, dangling sleeve. Nice of them to leave him some proper shoes instead of the hospital slippers, and slip-ons, too, so he doesn’t have to deal with laces.  He’s perched on a barstool taking in the Wakandan vistas when the door chimes and AIDA announces, “Captain Rogers.”

“‘S open!” He calls and the door hisses open.

“Ready to go?” Steve asks, stepping inside.

Bucky hops off the barstool, kicks it back under the counter.  “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go see what Shuri has in mind for me.”


	2. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Processing begins, grudgingly

What Shuri has in mind is not exactly what he had hoped.

“So, no magic pill?”

She shakes her head.  “No magic pill.”

“Magic bullet, then?” He asks hopefully.

She just stares at him.

“Thought you weren’t going to unfreeze me until you had a solution.  Not sure this is much of a solution.”

Steve speaks up.  “We talked over every possible angle on this, Buck.  There’s no fast and easy fix, and there’s no scenario where you can heal in cryo.  That’s . . . Kind of the opposite of how stasis works.”

“I’m VERY well aware of how stasis works,” Bucky snaps, suddenly irritated and not entirely sure why.  “WE talked this over? What about ME? Do I get a say in this at all?”

Steve looks stricken.  “Of course,” he says softly.  “Of course you do. It’s your choice.  You don’t have to do any of this if you don’t want.”

Bucky deflates, out of energy for a fight.  “I . . . I just want to think about it, OK?”

“Of course,” Shuri confirms.  “Take all the time you need. As far as your arm is concerned, I’m working on getting a prototype mocked up - really wish someone would have thought to grab whatever was left after Stark shot you, that could have saved me a lot of time - and the neurosurgeon can be ready to go pretty quick.  All you have to do is say the word. As for the other part, well, that’s your call too.”

Bucky nods, and stands.  “Thank you, Shuri. Really.  I’ll . . . Think about it. I’ll let you know.”

Steve stands up too and Bucky shoots him a halfhearted glare. He’s tired and, if he’s really being honest, scared, more than he’s angry but regardless there’s no way he can deal with Steve’s ernest concern right now.  “I’m going for a walk. By myself. If I get lost, I’ll send up a signal flare or something and you can come rescue me again.” It comes out so much more bitter than he intended. Even as he mentally kicks himself, Steve looks away, then turns slowly on his heel and walks out of the lab.

_The room spins.  Flash of blond bangs.  Blue eyes. Stab of . . ._

Shuri bounces to her feet, dances over to her sand tray, distracting his attention.  “That reminds me! Before you go, I made you this,” She hands him a sort of bracelet.  Thin slivers of metal - what do they call it, vibranium? - like long, slender twigs, all lined up side by side and stitched to a wide leather cuff. He takes it hesitantly and she bubbles, “Put it on - here - like this.  It’s a communicator. Untraceable. I coded it myself. You can call out from it but no one can use it to track you unless you want them to.”

Bucky looks at it curiously, turning his wrist over.  Orange symbols glow to life in his palm.

“You work it like this,” Shuri demonstrates by curling his fingers over the symbols before he can pull away.  “Here’s a map. Compass. Holo-comm. Translator. Stores door codes and credit chits, so you don’t have to carry keys or cash around.  You only need one hand to navigate it.”

He’s impressed.  It’s beautiful, and thoughtful.  “Thank you, Shuri.”

He walks for hours, letting himself get lost in the crowds, trying to stop himself from looking over his shoulder every other second.  He only finds his way home when it gets dark, with a little help from Shuri’s gift glowing in his palm, though the bustling streets remain as vibrant as ever.

He’s barely opened the door when the back of his neck tingles.  On instinct, he throws himself sideways through the entryway, skidding across the kitchen floor on his back, hand reaching for the counter, grasping at anything to use as a weapon.  He comes up empty and slams hard into the opposite wall, grunting as the air is knocked from his lungs.

_Sound of . . . applause?_

“Well, that was some entrance!  Was worried you might have lost your touch, James.”

Natasha Romanov is sitting in front of the darkened window opposite the kitchen island, perched on a stool.

“I don’t remember inviting you in,” he growls at her, catching his breath, still on the floor with his back to the wall.

“Don’t worry, that’s not amnesia.  I didn’t ask,” she quips back at him. “AIDA let me in.”

He glares at the ceiling, “Did she, now.”

“Well, I may have overridden her security protocols.  Tell her I’m sorry.”

“What do you want, Romanov?”

She points to a black tac pack on the far end of the counter.  In the dim light, he didn’t notice it before.

“What the hell?” he mutters, standing up and crossing to the bag.

“From Russia, with love.”

He ignores her and unzips the bag.  “I never thought I’d see these again.”

Inside, a dozen journals.  Cheap cardboard covers, flimsy paper.  The only thing Romanian drug stores seemed to carry.  Each one marked, tabbed, worn. He slides his hand into the bag, over the bedraggled black books.  Bumps into something unexpected and pulls up short.

“What . . .” 

_Flash of red_

A heavier book.  Larger. Red leather binding.  He’s frozen in place.

“What the hell is this,” he barely whispers, throat closing.  He knows what it is. “Where did you get this?”

Natasha steps past him to the door.

“Figured you didn’t want it locked up in Stark’s lab.”

“I don’t want it at all.  I want it as far away from me as possible,” he croaks.

“Of everyone I know, you’re the most qualified to keep it safe.  Do whatever you want with it - it’s yours now. Oh, and no one needs to know I was here. See you around.”

And she’s gone.  

He sinks to his knees on the kitchen floor, curling over as if in pain, hand braced against the counter, shoulders shaking.  It’s a long time before he can get to his feet again. Anticipating the dreams to come, he doesn’t even bother with the bed. He sleeps, barely, curled on the bedroom rug, tossing fitfully and murmuring in Russian.

 

****

 

Nine am.  Unable to sleep anyway, he instead presents himself showered, shaved - well, partly - and neatly dressed to the med center, as directed.  He’s shown to a side office, knocks, enters.

It’s a small room, simply decorated. There’s a real doorknob, real hinges on the door.  A clock hanging on the wall ticks softly. Wooden desk. Brown leather couch. Matching chair, side table.  

“Sergeant Barnes.  Welcome.” A small, slender woman stands in the middle of the room, smiling, extends a delicate, caramel-brown hand.

_The room spins.  Light reflects off round spectacles. Round face wreathed in sadistic smiles.  Sergeant Barnes! The procedure has already . . . The procedure . . ._

He shakes his head, trying to shake off Zola’s ghost.

Well, they're off to a great start.

He ignores her hand, walks across to the couch, drops onto it, folding his arm protectively across his chest.  “Bucky.”

She takes a seat in the chair across from him.  “Bucky. So you decided to come.”

He stares at her for a long minute.  Did he really have a choice? “Don’t know what they told you, but I haven’t had the best experience with shrinks. Hope you’ll forgive me if I’m a little less than thrilled about this.”

She extends a hand slowly, picks up a file off the side table.  It takes everything in his power not to flinch.

_Flash of red_

She leans slightly forward, still moving slowly, extending the file to him.  “Everything I know about you is in here - you’re welcome to take a look.”

He regards her suspiciously, taking the file.  It’s empty.

“So what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s up to you, to tell me whatever you want me to know.  Or not.”

He remains silent, so she goes on, “You’ll notice there’s no tech here.  No recording. No tricks. Just you and me, and whatever you want to work on, in whatever time you want to work on it.  The door’s not locked. You can leave whenever you please.”

He leans back slowly.  “So I don’t have to tell you anything?  There’s nothing you want to talk about? Nothing you want to know?”

She makes a small, slow gesture.  It dawns on him that she’s doing it on purpose, trying not to startle him.  Like you’d approach a wounded animal. Lovely.

“You can tell me anything you like, but no.  This is your time. I don’t have an agenda.”

He relaxes his guard just a hair.  “Alright, doc. Let’s pretend for a second I’m considering this.  Run me through the process one more time? Not sure I quite got whatever Shuri was talking about.”

So she does, explaining her background. Training. Procedure.  Something called informed consent. Now there’s a concept Hydra never mentioned.

 

****

 

He gets back to the apartment ( _home?_ ) late in the afternoon, starving, thoughts churning.  Shuri gave him a dozen packets of dried nutrient drink, along with the promise that she’s been tinkering with the flavor.  They’re carefully labeled “day” or “night” and he decides that as long as she’s going to keep drugging him, at least she’s honest about it.  And that black, dreamless void is a welcome relief from interminable nightmares. He shakes up a “day” packet in a tumbler and drinks it while staring out the window, which he has realized based on the layout of the building is just an incredibly high-tech video screen and not a window at all.  Of course they wouldn’t make it that easy. On the other hand, he’s pleasantly surprised to find that Shuri really has improved the taste. Salted plum. This is the best thing that’s happened all day.

“Hey AIDA?”

Chime of acknowledgement.  He likes that she doesn’t always talk.  It’s comforting, somehow. She’s not pretending to be human.

“Well, I was just thinking.  Wakanda is beautiful but it’s not really . . . Home.  For me. Not yet. Think we could adjust the windows to something . . . Else?”

“Of course,” she says.  “What would you prefer?”

Well isn’t that the question of the hour.  He thinks about it, finishes the shake. Romania? Definitely not home, just a place to lie low.  

“How about Brooklyn?  Maybe seeing it will help me remember . . . something.  Oh, but I do kind of like knowing what time it is. What the weather’s doing.  Here in Wakanda, since that’s kind of more useful. Is there any way to, I don’t know . . . Combine different things?”

In response, the scene in front of him shifts.  Suddenly he’s standing 200 feet above New York City, gazing out at Brooklyn bathed in late afternoon Wakandan sunlight, one hell of a penthouse view.

“Woah.”

“I apologize,” she explains, “These images are of present-day Brooklyn. Mid-twentieth century images are more limited and lack sufficient resolution for reproduction at this scale.”

“No that’s . . . This is fine.  This is perfect.”

The bubbling brook chime, which he’s decided indicates pleased laughter.

Over time, she adds different images of an older Brooklyn, modifying the view, seamlessly melding the past with the present.

 

****

 

No one is more surprised than he is when, the next morning, nine am once again finds Bucky in the med center, knocking softly on the nondescript office door.

“Welcome.  Please, sit down,” the therapist greets him gently.  Warmly.

He does, because it’s close enough to an order.  After two years with only his journals, and decades before that speaking only when absolutely necessary and only when prompted . . .

. . . _Mission report . . ._

He finds he has nothing to say.

Why is easier to talk to the AI than to another human being, he wonders.  And why did I even bother to come in today?

“Yet, here you are.  You didn’t have to. So why did you come?” The therapist asks softly.

“I was just asking myself that.”

She waits.

“Not sure I really have that much of a choice.”

“Oh?”

“I’d have settled for an eternity on ice, but here I am, so I guess someone decided it was time I woke up.  Pretty sure that wasn’t my call. Not that that’s new.”

He sighs deeply, looking away.  Stares into the distance through the far wall, thinking.

“It’s not the being woken up that I object to, I guess,” he says slowly, at last.  “If I really just didn’t want to wake up, well, there are easier, cheaper ways to accomplish that.  Some that might even work, if I really wanted to. Others I imagine I’ve tried. That didn’t work. Or weren’t quite as permanent as I expected.  I can’t really remember.”

He turns toward her, narrowing his eyes, head cocking slightly.  Shifts his weight a little on the couch. “Since your file is empty, here’s the Cliff’s Notes version.  I just turned a hundred years old. I spent about twenty of those years, give or take, being tortured and brainwashed and turned into some kind of human-shaped weapon, and then the next fifty killing whoever my handlers pointed me at.  Without question, and without fail. I remember maybe a quarter of all of that. Some things I’ve read. Other things I’ve been told. Some I’ve figured out on my own. Flashes. Faces, mostly. All of them, I think, or most. But almost no names, no dates, no details.  Nothing before about 1944, 1945, or after 1992. And even what I can remember, I don’t know what to feel about it. I don’t feel _anything_ about it, really.  So even if I had a clue where to start.  The part I still don’t get, the part that’s pissing me off here.  How on earth. Is all of . . . This . . .” He gestures widely to encompass the small room and petite therapist, “going to help me with any of _that_.”

He stops.  Goes silent for what feels like a long time.

Finally, leans forward, elbow resting on his knee, holding his weight.  Meets her eyes with a steel blue stare. “How. Is any of this. Going to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

She meets his gaze unhesitatingly, without flinching.  “It’s not. You are.”

He barks out a mirthless laugh.  Stands up, walks out.

 

****

 

He’s back the next day.  He can’t believe it, not even sure who he’s most annoyed with anymore. He feels tricked, wants to be mad at someone, but it’s his own two feet that keep carrying him to the med center.  He’s still on the lookout for it, but for once no one seems to be holding a gun on him.

There was something else in the tac pack Natasha brought him.  A file, marked with the very old stamp of the KGB’s Kiev office.  His file, or parts of it. Newspaper clippings, some of Zola’s early notes.  Decrypted, translated. From Russia, with love, indeed.

Seems like half a century of killing should take up more space, but it’s not a particularly thick file.

Hands it over.

“Just in case the summary report wasn’t enough, here are a few more of the gory details.”

She leans casually back in her chair, looking up at him without a hint of fear.  Makes no move to accept the file.

“Which gory details do you think I need to know?”

Since she’s not giving any indication of taking the file, he simply opens his hand, lets it drop on the floor at her feet.  

 _That’s a bit childish_ , the voice in his head points out.  Where is that coming from, anyway? He wishes it would shut up.

“Still just trying to figure out where to start,” he says a little insolently, at the same time the voice in his head berates him.

_Wow, that’s your big act of defiance, Barnes?  Act like an asshole to everyone who’s trying to help you?  That’s real smart. Good strategy._

“Anywhere you want,” she suggests, interrupting his train of self-abuse.  “The beginning? First thing you do remember? Thing that’s bothering you the most?”

He glances sideways at her.

“Yeah, wish I could narrow that down.”

She just smiles at him, settles in, as if there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be.  “Take all the time you need.”

He’s stubborn, and resistant, but patience has never been his strongest suite.  After thirty minutes, he’s starting to fidget under her calm, patient gaze. He opens his mouth, about to say something . . .

_“Sergeant Barnes!”_

He jerks forward as if he’s been stung.  “Fuck!” The word erupts out of him before he can snap his mouth shut.

She blinks, a little surprised that time.  “What?”

He shakes his head, clearing it.

“Zola.” Bitter taste of bile in his throat, just saying the name out loud.

She quirks an eyebrow slightly, not understanding.

“Arnim Zola,” he elaborates, trying to suppress a shudder.  “Makes Doctor Frankenstein look like an angel of mercy. OK, I guess we’re starting there.”

He’s spent the better part of the last three years on the run, every thought beyond basic survival focused on nothing but trying - desperately - to remember the past.  Frantically notating every twinge of deja vu, every nightmare, every disorienting flashback in those beat up little journals.

“I remember falling out of the train, waking up in a ravine,” he says now, slowly.  “At least, partly. Sometimes I dream about that happening, but I don’t know for sure if that’s how it really went.  After that . . .”

He cocks his head as if listening for a sound in the distance.  Eyes far away. Remembering. Or trying to.

“I don’t know how I survived.  Zola must have . . . Done something . . .”

_Room spins.  Flash of greenish light reflecting off dripping stone walls._

_“Sergeant Barnes!  The procedure has already begun . . .”_

_That sadistic smile._

_Electrical hiss and pop in his ears._

_Searing flash of pain explodes in his head, momentarily whiting out his vision._

He bites his tongue, hard.

_Iron in his mouth._

He’s quiet again for a while, mindlessly rubbing his thumb slowly over a hard callus on his index finger, lost in thought.  

Finally, almost as if he’s talking to himself, he says,“You know how some people get, like, bruises?  And can’t remember how they got them? That’s me, all the time. Except I get . . . a lot more than bruises.  I can speak seven or eight languages, maybe more. Fly a helicopter. And a heli-fighter, come to think of it.  Break down, reassemble, and fire just about every mechanized weapon created in the last two centuries. And I have no idea how I can do any of that.  I don’t remember learning it. I don’t know why it’s important that I know it, just that it must be, otherwise I . . . wouldn’t. They - Hydra - wouldn’t have wasted the time otherwise.”

He pauses again, trying to make sense of that, trying to hold onto the thread of it.

_“Then wipe him, and start over.”_

_“Wipe him . . .”_

_Crackle of electricity._

_White-out pain._

_And then, nothing._

A shuddering sigh, hand pressed over his eyes.  Head down, lost in a maze of broken memories.

“Zola’s . . . procedure.  Was more of an experiment.  He refined it over time. Made it more . . . efficient.  More effective. And I really don’t remember how to fight it anymore.”  

 

****

 

It has, he realizes with some dismay, actually been months since he really spent any time outside.  His days since waking from cyro freeze have been a repeating refrain of therapy sessions, trips to the med center or Shuri’s lab for any number of tests, and sitting silently in the apartment, staring out the windows lost in thought, journal in his lap open to a blank page, desperately trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.  Walking or taking the hyperloop between the lab and the residential district hardly counts as out of doors. Maybe it’s time to take a proper walk. It’s an overcast day, the mist uncharacteristically chilly. His favorite kind of weather, he thinks, and then wonders how he knows that. It _feels_ right, though, so he decides to go with it. 

In jeans and hoodie, head down, hand and empty sleeve stuffed deep into his pockets, he finds his way out of the residential complex.  The bustling city holds no appeal today. He turns away and heads for the lab and mine instead, following the curving path along the cliff, up to the honeycomb-like hanger and landing pad.  Turns away from these, too, heads out across the lush, green mesa. The mist is heavier up here, beading his hair with cool droplets. Up high, completely alone, he stops and turns his face up to the sky, enjoying the water dusting sharp and cold across his cheeks.  Breathes deeply. The world smells green, and alive. Another slow breath, cool air filling his lungs, peaceful . . . 

_. . . Cold_

_Flurries blowing around him, sticking in his hair._

_Not flat on his back, this time._

_Not helpless and dying in a ravine in the middle of nowhere._

_Up high now, on his belly on a snow-covered rooftop._

_Stock cold against his cheek, rifle heavy in his hands._

_Where is he?  What year is it?  Vienna? Maybe Prague?  Warsaw? Doesn’t matter. Not important._

_Movement on the street below._

_Breathe out._

_Squeeze, don’t pull._

_Absorbing the recoil into his shoulder, knowing without looking that the shot was true._

_Up and moving, disappearing like a ghost into the swirling snow._

_Far below, the screaming starts._

_He’s not quite fast enough to outrun it._  

He falls to his knees in the wet, waving grass, gasping, screams echoing in his ears. Maybe not his own, this time.  Breathing ragged, hand over his face.

What was _that?_

 _That’ll teach you to drop your guard,_ the voice in the back of his head snipes bitterly at him.  Ok, that one’s fair, he thinks.


	3. Dancing Through Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Processing continues . . .

Days become weeks.  Weeks turn into a month, then two.  Four. Steve comes and goes before disappearing for good, with the promise to return as soon as possible. Bucky gets more creative about filling his free time between therapy sessions.  Most nights, Shuri’s drugged nutrient shakes keep the nightmares at bay. He finds the residential complex’s gym. Attempts a one-armed push-up, falls on his face. Curses, and tries again.  And again. And again, until he gets it. Just one, at first. After a week, he’s up to four, fighting for five. By the end of the first month, he’s up to twenty. 

Shuri shows him around his new home.  He’s still trying to wrap his head around the word at all, much less the idea of walking around freely wherever he likes, but she’s determined. She teaches him how to fly, and more importantly, hotwire, hover bikes and they ride out to secluded waterfalls, feed apples to herds of adolescent battle rhinos on the vast plains, visit remote farming villages and delight barefoot children with her latest inventions. She drags him to markets, laughs at his expressions of surprised delight as he discovers the textures and tastes of local produce. Coaxes him into tiny, hidden restaurants.  To raucous outdoor festivals. Laughs more, at his wide-eyed curiosity towards the dancers, the drummers. At his foot, unexpectedly and automatically tapping along with the rhythm. Laughter turns to delighted shrieks when he sweeps her off her feet and into the writhing, twisting, dancing crowd. Neither one of them expected him to be much of a dancer. Maybe reflexive amnesia is useful for something after all. 

AIDA helps to teach him Xhosa and he picks up the basics quickly enough.  Just enough to make the village children giggle and the fruit sellers grin.  He finds himself at a certain nearby market often enough that the vendors start to recognize him, calling out when they have his favorite fruits, sometimes slip him extra. At first it feels dangerous - alien - to have predictable habits.  To be recognized. Gradually, the edge wears off, starts to feel familiar. Comfortable. Not quite safe exactly, not quite ready to let his guard down just yet, and maybe that’s more for their sake than his, but he’s getting there. 

He takes to stealing - Steve would say ‘borrowing’ - T’Challa’s hover bike and exploring the countryside on his own until one day he returns to find an annoyed King of Wakanda and an equally exasperated General Okoye waiting for him.

“If you’re going to borrow it, at least return it with a full tank?” T’Challa suggests.  “Or better yet, take your own.” 

He makes a quick gesture and Bucky flinches automatically.  A starter key clatters to the ground at his feet. “Nice catch, Barnes,” T’Challa remarks casually as he strolls away with a glowering Okoye hot on his heels.  Bucky, mouth still half-open in surprise, decides against correcting him. 

Fills three more journals, trying to ignore the red leather book buried at the bottom of the tac pack.  Zola’s glasses no longer float in front of his eyes every time he enters the medical wing. Zemo’s voice still whispers in his ear, though.  

_ Longing.  Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak.  No. Stop. _

Sometimes it shouts.

_ Furnace. Nine. Benign. _

_ Please, stop. _

Sometimes he screams himself awake, throat raw, before the sequence is finished. 

Spends hours on the internet with AIDA as his personal twenty-first century tour guide.  Music. Popular culture. But mostly, politics and world events. It’s raining, so he’s lying low for the night.  Browsing through half a century of data AIDA has compiled for him, laboriously matching up dates, locations, world events with the scattered memories jotted in his journals.  Trying to sort things into some kind of order. Hoping it will jog new memories. Nothing much, a few flashes here and there. Nothing he can hold on to, no sense of connection to any of it. No emotion at all, which is plenty to fuel his sense of guilt all on its own.  Until a new video, a segment of an American television broadcast announcing the passing of a genius, billionaire scientist, rises to the top of the queue. 

_ No.  Oh no. Not that one.  Please not that. Please stop. _

He squeezes his eyes shut, turning away and waving off the hovering vid screen.  Doesn’t matter, he can play the entire scene through in his head any time he wants.  And more especially, when he doesn’t.

_ The car skids off the road, slams into a tree, shudders to a stop.  The man begs, pleads, blood pouring down his face. The woman cries as the soldier reaches through the window for her fragile neck.  The blank expression on the soldier’s face never changes. _

_ The younger Stark’s face, twisting in pain and fury as he watches the security footage. _

_ Steve’s face, horrified, watching Bucky watch Tony. _

_ Weight of his guilt, his shame enough to make his knees buckle, make him stagger backwards. _

Zemo’s voice roars in his ears.  

_ Longing.  Rusted. Seventeen.  Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign.  Homecoming. One. _

_ No. Stop.  STOP. _

He doubles over, gagging.  Trying not to throw up.

No more pineapple-flavored shakes after that night.

The next day, he walks into the therapist’s office and drops the red book on her side table.

“Something new for your file,” he says wearily, throwing himself onto the couch.

“What’s this?”

He drops his head a fraction, raising his red-rimmed eyes to meet hers.  Cold stare. Dark hair falls across his forehead. He doesn’t bother to brush it away.  “Every weapon comes with an operator’s manual. That’s mine. How’s your Russian?”

She shakes her head slightly. “None.”

He shrugs, reaches out to take the book back.  “These are activation codes. And operator’s notes.  Field repairs manual. Troubleshooting. Emergency off-switch.  Good to know about that one, actually.” 

He has AIDA provide Shuri with images of a few pages of the book.  Just the tech specs. Nat helps with the translations after he bribes her with dinner - his technical vocabulary doesn’t seem to be as extensive as it used to so it’s worth the cost of a meal.  Shuri has the tact not to say anything beyond a mumbled Xoshan curse when she sees the schematics.

 

****

 

And then, eight months in, just as he’s starting to feel like maybe he’s making progress, like maybe one or two things are finally starting to fall into some kind of place, Steve comes back.  

 

Bucky is lounging in his favorite chair, watching the Wakandan sun set over AIDA’s photo-manipulated 1940/2018 Brooklyn skyline and methodically cleaning a sniper rifle.  Natasha brought it for him, on another one of her unexpected stealth visits. He came home one afternoon after a particularly productive session to find her sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, eating ice cream straight out of the tub.

“Were you raised by wolves, Romanov?”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully.  “Red Room.”

“So same thing, then.”

“Exactly.”

“Get off my counter.”

She pouts at him.  “Don’t be like that, James.  Brought you a present. Thought you might be getting bored.”

She slides the case across the counter to him.  He doesn’t need to open it to know what it is.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Well, traditionally I suppose you shoot targets with it but since I decided not to bring you any ammo on this trip, I guess you’ll have to get creative.”

“Don’t suppose you OK’ed this with T’Challa?”

She looks offended.  “I did, actually. He thinks you need a hobby, too. Other than stealing his stuff.”

He rolls his eyes. “I stopped stealing his bike weeks ago.  And shooting targets - people - was my  _ old  _ hobby.  My therapist recommended meditation.”

She snorts.  “Seriously?”

“No.  She’s smarter than that.”

“Thank God. Enjoy your new toy.”

Having finished the ice cream, she hops off the counter, gives him a peck on the cheek, and sashays out the door while he’s still gaping. 

A few YouTube videos later, and that reflexive amnesia gift that just keeps on giving, he’s worked out how to break it down and reassemble it with one hand.  He’s been practicing for weeks now, getting faster. Got AIDA to time him, ran speed tests until he’s finally well within an acceptable time even for someone with two hands. That accomplishment was an hour ago, though, so now he’s just, well, meditating.  The door chimes and AIDA announces, “Captain Rogers” at the same time the door slides open. Doesn’t anyone wait to be invited anymore? He doesn’t bother to set down the stock he’s holding, just keeps working. Steve pokes his head around the corner, starts to offer a greeting, then the scene registers and his eyes grow to the size of dinner plates.

“They gave you a _gun_?!”  

He can’t help smirking at Steve’s shocked expression. “Technically, it’s a rifle.  With no ammo. In the hands, er,  _ hand  _ of the world’s only centenarian ,  one-armed sniper.   About as useful as a submarine in the Sahara.”

It’s not really that funny but Steve bursts out laughing, which for some reason and completely to his surprise, sets Bucky off, too.  When they can both breathe again, Bucky lays the rifle stock aside, gets up and heads for the kitchen, giving Steve a ‘welcome home’ slap on the shoulder on the way by.

“When did you get back?” He asks over his shoulder, digging into the fridge.

“Just now, actually.”

“Here, catch!” Bucky tosses Steve a beer on his way back to the chair with a bottle of water. “You kind of look like you could use that.”

Steve continues to look surprised, or perhaps confused, but sinks down on the couch with his beer gratefully enough.

“Yeah, I honestly didn’t expect to be gone that long.” He leans back and rests the cold bottle against his forehead. “Ah, I need about a month of this.”

Bucky curls into his chair, knees drawn up.  “What’s going on?” He asks curiously, studying Steve.

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbles tiredly.

Bucky gives an accepting half-shrug.  They’re silent for a while before Steve finally shifts, stands up, avoiding looking at him.  “I should go. Just wanted to say hi. Sorry to barge in on you.”

Bucky stands up too.  “Sure. It’s fine. Hey.”

Steve finally looks up at him.   

_ The room spins.  Flash of red . . . Curls.  Red lips. Pink cheeks flushed against pale skin. Blond bangs.  Flash of laughing eyes, blue as the summer sky . . . _

_Longing._  

Bucky blinks, trying to drag his attention back into the present.

Steve looks tired.  His hair has gotten longer, it hangs down over his forehead now.  He hasn’t shaved in a couple days, and his face looks drawn and worn, like the weight of the world is resting on him.  Knowing Steve, it probably is. He’s still looking at Bucky, waiting.

“If you’re still in town tomorrow, and you don’t have plans,” Bucky finally says, “It’s my day off.  I was going to go for a hike. Shuri told me about some great waterfalls and it’s probably going to get hot this week.”

It’s Steve’s turn to blink, that look of confused surprise back on his face.  “I, um. Yeah. Sure. I. . . Yeah, that sounds good. I could probably use that.”

“Good,” Bucky says crisply, walking him to the door.  “Just knock when you’re ready to go.”

 

****

 

The sun has barely started to rise over Brooklyn when the door chimes and AIDA announces Steve.  Bucky answers the door with a yawn, still in pajama bottoms and bare feet.

“Rise and shine!” Steve chirps in a voice that makes Bucky want to punch him.  Instead he turns his back and heads for the kitchen, where AIDA has helpfully started the coffee maker.

“Breakfast first.  Then hike,” he says, reaching into the fridge for eggs. “You still like sunny side up?”

Steve is looking around the apartment, that look  _ back _ on his face.  What  _ is _ that look?  Confusion? Curiosity?  Bemusement.

It takes him a minute to answer.  Bucky gets impatient waiting for him.

“Hello?  Earth to Steve?”

“Uh, yeah.  Sorry. Yes, sunny side up.  Can I get that with a bacon smiley face?”

“Don’t push your luck, Rogers.”

Two servings of eggs, toast, and black coffee later and they’re on their way.  Bucky lets Steve handle the washing up while he gets dressed. Throws some fruit, nuts, and bottles of water into the beat-up tac pack.  The file, journals, and leather-bound book have long since found a better hiding place.

Bucky leads the way out to the hovercraft hanger, brings the bike around.  Steve’s eyes practically fall out of his head and Bucky tries, very unsuccessfully, not to  laugh. 

“What, you’ve never seen a hoverbike before?  This is Wakanda, get with the program.”

Steve just shakes his head, and then they’re off, Bucky expertly maneuvering the craft one-handed.  Luckily Steve is as experienced a rider as he is, and they lean into curves together, balancing the bike with an old, reflexive familiarity.

Shuri has uploaded directions into his communicator and they find the trailhead easily enough.  After that it’s a seven-mile uphill climb through thick brush damp with early summer dew. Tiny springs of water trickle straight out of rocks all around them, hinting at greater things to come.  Birds call and wind whispers through the trees. They hike in silence for miles before Steve finally pipes up.

“This place is amazing. I can’t get over it.”

Bucky grunts in acknowledgment, agreement.  There’s really nothing to add to that. But Steve goes on.

“No, I’m serious.  I mean, everything.  That apartment. Brooklyn, Buck? And you - it hasn’t even been a year and you’re completely different.  I mean you’ve changed. I mean, in a good way, but . . .” He stumbles into silence. 

Bucky stays quiet, thinking about it.  Maybe since he’s in the thick of it every day, he hasn’t noticed.  Maybe some things have changed - have started to change - more than he realized.  Completely different might be stretching it, though.

They reach the base of the falls at midday.  Hiking to the top would require gear they don’t have, but as promised there is a deep pool below the falls, surrounded by enormous boulders.  The water cascades pleasantly, not so much roaring as rushing. It reminds Bucky of AIDA’s laughter and makes him smile.

“C’mon, lets go in!”

Steve hangs back, suddenly reluctant, but Bucky is already out of his boots and shirt, halfway up the largest boulder, ready to dive.

“Wait, Buck - “

There’s a splash, and Bucky is gone.  He doesn’t resurface. Real alarm bubbling up in his chest, Steve leans over the edge of the boulder, searching . . .

And suddenly a muscular, sun-browned arm shoots straight up at him, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and dragging him off the boulder and into the water.  He goes down shouting and swinging, bobs back to the surface sputtering and swearing. Bucky dodges out of the way, sleek and agile as a river otter, roaring with laughter. They chase and splash and dunk each other until they’re exhausted, and then they float on their backs, head to head, looking up at the sky through the mist of the falls.

They dry off laying side by side on the flattest of the sun-warmed boulders, munching on fruit and laughing at nothing.  Bucky stretches out, hand behind his head, half-nodding off.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me, Buck.  We still gotta hike back.”

“Fine, fine.  Keep me awake, then,” Bucky grins lazily, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Oh, yeah?  How you want me to do that?  Throw you back in the water?”

He laughs, but sleepily.  “Nah, not that. I dunno . . . Tell me a story.  You were always a good storyteller.”

Steve chuckles, pushes himself up to rest on his elbows.  “Huh. A story. What kind of story you want to hear?”

Bucky thinks about it.  “Tell me something about Brooklyn. That girl.  Dot, right? We used to go dancing . . .” His voice drifts off.  Steve smiles, eyes distant, staring out into the sea of green but seeing brownstone buildings and dust brown boardwalks.

“A dancing story, huh?  Oh yeah, OK, I think I’ve got one.

It’s 1943.  There’s this girl, Dolores.  Dot, you called her. Boy, you were crazy about her.  She was stunning. Bright red hair, red curls. Green eyes.”  

_ The room spins.  Flash of red curls, flying.  Red lips. Smoky air. A piano, somewhere far away  _ _. . . _

“She really made you work for it, too.  Although I always thought you secretly liked that.  Anyway. It’s a Friday. I remember, because it was payday and you wanted to go out dancing.  Also, because I’d just tried to enlist. Again. And gotten rejected. Again. So I’m sitting at home feeling sorry for myself and you’re sitting there alternately furious with me for lying on my papers, again, and for ruining your night out, again, because you’re going to have to spend the whole time cheering me up and Dot is going to be pissed at you.  Again. Get dressed, you tell me. We’re going out. We’re going dancing. Yes, you have to go. You owe it to me, punk, you say. So I do, and off we go. There’s this little club. Tiny place, but the drinks are cheap and the band is smokin’. And Dot’s place is on the way. So we pick her up and of course she’s annoyed at you that I’m tagging along but once you charm her out onto the dance floor, nothing else matters.  God, the two of you. I guess you don’t remember this, but you were really an incredible dancer, Buck. I’m just sitting in the corner, nursing a whiskey and water because I’m too sick and too weak and too pathetic to drink anything stronger. And I can’t dance worth a damn. So I’m just watching the pair of you.”

_ Room spins.  Smoky air. Brass band.  Red curls, red lips. Pale cheeks flushed pink. Flash of blond.  Blond bangs falling over a pale forehead. Blue eyes, like a summer day . . . _

“It’s real late. Like three am.  Band’s still going strong. Tune ends, and Dot comes to sit down.  She’s had enough, she has to have a break. Have a drink. Have a smoke.  But the band’s already sliding into their next number and you’re pleading with her.  One more. It’s your favorite tune . . .”

“. . . A Train . . .” Bucky murmurs, nearly asleep.  Steve glances over at him. His eyes are half-closed, distant.  Face peaceful. Ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms softly, almost sadly.  “That was it. Ellington. We saw him play once . . . Ok but that’s a whole different story.  Anyway. Dot’s out. She’s done, but you’ve never given up on anything you set your mind to in your entire damn life, so you just grab me by the arm and drag me up.  Not like it’s hard, you’re about a foot taller than me. Whisk me out onto the floor like it’s nothing. I’m just trying to keep my feet under me, not step on yours . . .”

“. . . Easier if you’d quit trying to lead . . .” Bucky mumbles, not quite talking in his sleep.  

Steve sighs and lifts his eyes to the heavens, a silent prayer for patience.  “You gonna let me finish? Ok. Shut up. So off we go, dancing without a care in the world.  I do quit trying to lead, let you take over, and as usual, you’re great. It’s great. It’s so much fun I can barely stand it.  I just want to freeze time right there, never let it end. But the band finishes, and the bar closes. It’s probably four am now.  Somehow we get Dot home. We’re drunk as a pair of lords, just stumbling down the boardwalk, laughing like idiots about something or other.  I’m trying to hold you up, really not sure how we thought that was going to work.”

Steve glances over at Bucky, who is fast asleep, smile on his face, hand curled over his head.  Steve sits up carefully so as not to wake his friend. Draws his legs up, hugs them to his chest.  Rests his chin on his knees and stares back through the long shadows of the past to pre-sunrise in Brooklyn, 1943.  Looks back over at Bucky, then away again.

“There’s more,” he says slowly.  “There’s a part I never told you - never told anyone.  We were both so drunk. You more so than me, I guess. I’m trying to hold you up, like I said.  I’m usually the clumsy one, but . . . I think your shoe caught a crack in the boardwalk or something. You stumble, and fall right on top of me. I say god, you’re such a jerk. . .”

_ Flash of blond bangs.  Pale cheeks, flushed pink.  Laughing blue eyes. Red lips.  Sweet smell of whiskey. Arms tight around each other, clinging on for balance, for dear life.  Foreheads pressed together, nose to nose.  _

_ All he’d have to do is drop his head . . . _

_ “God, you’re such a jerk.” _

_ All he’d have to do . . . _

_ “You bet I am.” _

_. . . He does. _

_ Sweet taste of whiskey.  Bitter bite of cigarettes. _

_ Longing. _

_ Whose knees give out first?  Maybe they fall together . . . _

“I guess that was the last thing I ever expected.  We pick ourselves up, stumble the rest of the way home.  We never talked about it. I figured you were so drunk you didn’t remember.  That was the last time we went dancing, Buck. The next week you got your orders, and I watched you walk away at the fair, God you looked amazing in that uniform, and I realized I was never going to see you again.”

Steve stares out at the valley spread below them, listens to the rush of water, watches ghosts float by as the shadows grow longer.  Eventually, Bucky stirs. Stretches, groaning. Steve nudges him gently in the ribs with his foot.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.  Time to get moving, long hike back.”

They hike the entire way in silence, each lost in thought.  The nighttime ride back to the capital city is peaceful, uneventful.  Bucky guiding the bike, in no rush. Steve’s arms wrapped around his waist, chest pressed up against his back.  Leaning into the curves together, moving in fluid harmony. Like . . .

. . .  _ dancing _ . . .


	4. Just Desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some realizations are made and some matters are taken in hand.

“Boy have I got one for you today, doc,” Bucky says, dropping unceremoniously onto the couch. “I think I’m in love with my best friend.”

At this point, there’s not much he could say that would surprise her.  She doesn’t reply, just waits him out. Lets him process it on his own.  The only sound in the room is the soft hum of the buzzing paddles, one tucked under each of his legs.

Finally, he looks up at her, brow still furrowed in thought.

“Not that I’ll ever tell him that,” he says slowly.

“Oh?”

His gaze shifts, off into the distance, remembering.  Or imagining.

The words come out stilted, struggling their way around the ache in his chest.  “I can’t. I like this too much. I like the way things are now. I don’t want things to change.  I finally feel . . .safe? Not quite, but at least like I finally belong somewhere. Happy? I don’t know, but I don’t want to lose whatever it is I have,” he trails off, still not meeting her eyes.

“Oh Bucky,” she sighs.  He drags his gaze back to her.

“What?  Is that so wrong? Just to be . . .content? With where I am - who I am - now?  It might not be perfect, but why can’t it be enough? Why should I deserve more?  I . . . don’t . . .” His voice rises, tense and tight.

_ Longing. _

“No, that’s not . . .”

“Look, just drop it.”  His voice is bitter, and hopeless.

 

****

 

Weeks pass.  Another month.  Two. 

Early evening.  Sitting in the kitchen, watching across the counter as Steve nurses a beer.  Bucky never drinks them, but he keeps a few on hand for whenever Steve comes back.

They’re not talking about anything in particular, it’s just nice to be able to spend some down time together.  Bucky has been reading the briefings, thanks to Shuri and AIDA, so he has a better idea of what’s going on behind the scenes of Steve’s world.  Finally unable to contain his curiosity, he has to ask.

“How’re intergalactic negotiations going?”

Steve shakes his head tiredly, taking another sip of beer.  “They’re not. We really tried. Strange, Tony . . . but . . . it seems inevitable.”

“War.”

“Yeah.”

Before he can reply, something snaps in the metallic remains of Bucky’s left shoulder.  It’s been bothering him for weeks now. Loose connection, maybe, or a short in whatever is left of the electronics.  Getting worse. He keeps meaning to talk to Shuri about it, keeps putting it off. It surprises him now, and hurts enough to make him hiss and grimace, clawing at the back of his shoulder, fingers digging in over his shirt.  

Steve looks alarmed, sets his beer down.

“Buck?”

He grits his teeth, wondering whether he used to have a higher tolerance for this sort of pain.  “‘S nothing. Flares up sometimes. Can’t quite . . .” A grunt, from effort, “. . . Reach.”

Steve takes a long stride around the counter, stepping up behind him.  Pushing his hand out of the way.

“Here?”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, “Little lower . . .”

A hand tugs the hem of his shirt up and out of the way.  Steve traces curious fingers around the curve of the metal plate over his shoulder blade, over a jagged scar. Bucky stiffens but doesn’t move away.

“Tickles,” he mumbles.

“Jesus, Buck . . .” Steve breathes, getting a better look at the scars around his shoulder.

“Right there.  Little harder please,” it’s a little breathless.

Steve digs in and Bucky lets out a noise that might not be from pain, might not even be entirely human.  Mutinous body pushes back against Steve’s hand on its own, without his permission. He moans again, “St-” . . .

. . . Steve pulls his hand back, making a worried sort of sound.  Bucky collapses forward, knuckles white, gripping the edge of the stool to keep from toppling to the floor.

“Thanks,” he gasps.

“Shit, did I . . . hurt you?”

“ . . . No.  ‘s fine. Just . . . need a . . . minute.”  He’s still trying to catch his breath, get some kind of control over his body.  Failing.

_ Falling. _

“Should I . . . Get someone?”

“No, I just . . . Just need some space.  Please.”

“Yeah.  Sure. Sure.” Steve’s already backing toward the door.  He’s gone.

Bucky releases his hold on the stool and buries his face in his hand, squeezing the bridge of his nose, sighing in annoyance and frustration.

_ Longing. _

 

****

 

Shuri pages him to the lab.  She’s finished his prosthetic.  He steps up to the sand tray hesitantly, not sure he’s ready for this. The sand drops away and . . .

. . . His breath catches against the sudden tightness in his throat.  It’s beautiful in the same way a knife is beautiful, the same way his beloved Springfield rifle was beautiful.  Matte, gunmetal gray vibranium, inlaid with . . . Is that gold? She’s kept the individual, interlocking plates, but curved lines and organic shapes have replaced stark Russian engineering sensibilities.

_ Longing _ .

Shuri bounces on her toes, excited to explain the details.

“Vibranium,” she confirms.  “Bulletproof, obviously. EMS shielded.  Light - we just matched the weight to your right side.  That’ll help you feel more evenly balanced, less stress on your back, joints, too.  The inlay is touch-sensitive. Heat, cold. You’ll definitely have more feeling there.  Should help with dexterity in the fingers, too. Improved palm grip - you won’t have to wear a fight glove all the time.  The shape of the plates allows you to control pressure. It will feel natural, like contracting a muscle. And it’s the cooling system.  Kept that part, it just made sense. As far as the original design, well, it was pretty barbaric but they had a couple useful ideas.”

She reaches over and manipulates something near the shoulder joint.  An access hatch slides open on the forearm, just below the elbow.

“For basic repairs, running updates,” she explains. “The hard reset is still in the shoulder housing.  There’s also a detach point there for more serious repairs, neuro-connections, that sort of thing.”

He’s still staring at the disembodied metal arm laying on the tray, only half-listening to her.  “Neuro . . .?”

She sighs, “Yeah, that’s the fun part.  Not quite sure how - you called them Hydra? Not sure how they figured it out in nineteen-forty-whatever, but the integration is . . . intense.  Major brain surgery. Kind of amazing you lived through it at all, much less walked around afterwards, or had any kind of motor control.”

Huh.  He half-expects Zola’s sadistic, bespectacled greeting but there’s nothing.  Just . . . emptiness where naked terror should be. He doesn’t understand why he suddenly feels so alone.

Shuri’s grinning again, confident. “But they didn’t have Wakandan tech.  Nothing to worry about this time around.”

He turns away, tearing his eyes from the tray.

“Thanks, Shuri.  It’s really . . . incredible.  I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.”

She nods. “This time, it’s completely up to you.  Your call. No one’s going to force anything on you until - if - you’re ready.”

He’s still looking away, frozen in thought but for the muscle working in his jaw.

“Ok,” he says softly, at last.

_ Longing. _

He walks out of the lab and just keeps going.  Paces the length of the city. Returns to the apartment long after dark.  Ignores AIDA’s gentle greeting. Downs one of Shuri’s drugged nutrient shakes just to get some rest.

Awakens in the soft darkness of pre-dawn.  Stands under a hot shower, arm braced against the wall, waiting for the rushing water to pound the ache out of his shoulders.  It doesn’t.

Sits in his therapist’s office for an hour, staring a hole into the wall across from the couch. Silent, Zemo’s voice in his ears.

_ Rusted.  Daybreak.  Furnace. Benign.  Homecoming. One. _

Silence, but for the ticking of the clock.

_ One. _

_ One. _

Stays in the gym until every muscle in his body screams in protest.

Locks the door, deactivates AIDA, and hides from everyone for three days.  Hides from himself.

_ Longing. _

The sun has set.  It’s dark in the apartment and he’s half-asleep stretched out on the rug in the living room, propped against the chair in the corner, slipping in and out of dreams.

_ Smoky room, spinning.  Keyboard. Brass. Drum beat, pounding. _

_ Gentle fingers on the back of his neck.  His shoulder. His back. _

_ Longing. _

_ Blond bangs, dark with sweat, sticking to a pale forehead. _

_ Cheeks flushed pink. _

_ Blue eyes. _

_ Red lips. _

_ Heart pounding in his ears. _

_ Longing. _

_ Taste of whiskey.  Taste of cigarettes on his tongue. _

_ Hot breath mingling together, half-panting. _

_ Longing. _

_ Tumbling in a tangle of arms and legs . . . _

He’s breathing hard in his sleep, hand curling closed.  Body tense, arching, aching.

_ Longing. _

Chime.

no.

“Captain . . .”

The door’s already open, a step in the hall.  Doesn’t. Anyone. Fucking. Wait. To be. Invited.

And he’s wide awake, sitting up, back pressed against the chair, grabbing at a pillow from the couch.

Ice cold, soaking wet.

Startled.

Scared.

And inexplicably, furious.

Swearing at the ceiling in Russian.  It’s a really good language for giving someone a dressing down.

Steve’s standing in the doorway, staring at him sitting on the floor with a pillow pressed protectively in his lap.

“Get. Out.” Bucky grates, voice tight.

“What?  Buck, I . . .” Steve stutters, takes half a step closer. That’s a mistake.

He slams his fist into the floor. “I said get out. Door’s closed for a reason.”

But Steve’s still staring at him, confusion and hurt waring across his face for expression.  Confusion wins.

“What are you . . .?”

He’s on his feet, livid.  Shaking. Flings the pillow at the couch with enough force to leave an indent on the sofa cushion.  Stalks past Steve, towards the door, beyond caring what soft jersey pajama bottoms may or may not be concealing.

“What am I doing?” He growls.  “Not that it is  _ any _ of your business, but I am watching porn with my traitorous AI, jerking off, because that is ALL I have LEFT and I would LIKE some goddamn privacy!”  He’s shouting now, shoves the door open, gestures with a flourish of his arm across his body. “Now if you would  _ be _ so kind as to Get. Out.  And leave. Me. Alone.”

Steve goes.  The door slides shut.  Bucky sinks to the floor, gasping.  Shoulders hunched, sides heaving. Sobbing.

 

****

 

Morning.  He’s curled in a ball on the cold floor.  He uncurls slowly. Painfully. Gets dressed.  Sinks onto his therapist’s couch with a low sigh, hunched over.  Head down, hand dangling between his knees, dark hair falling in curtains hiding his face.  For a long time he’s silent, crying without making a sound.

_ Don’t let them hear you.  It’s worse if they hear you.  It’s worse if he hears you. _

_ Homecoming. _

_ One. _

_ Nine. _

At long last, he raises his eyes, glassy with pain, to look at the therapist.  Gentle brown meets stormy blue.

“How do you do this?” He asks.  It’s a plea.

“What?”

“How do you just sit there.  Calm. While I’m . . .” he trails off, dropping his gaze.  Hangs his head, ashamed.

_ Rusted. _

“Oh Bucky,” she says softly.  Gently.

He rests his elbow on his knee, burying his face in his hand.

“What do I do?” He asks helplessly.  

Of course she doesn’t answer.  He looks up at her again, eyes burning.

“What am I supposed to do?”he repeats.  “I don’t know. I just . . . All this. All of this.  I’m not supposed to want any of this. It’s . . .I don’t deserve any of this.  Generosity. Kindness. After . . . Everything I . . .” His hand curls into a tight fist on his knee. “What Shuri did.  What she made for me. I’m not supposed to want that. It’s everything that’s wrong with me. It’s supposed to be this awful thing - this monster.  This physical, tangible reminder of what I was. Am. What I’ve done, what I’m capable of doing again. It feels like a test. If I accept it, what does that say about me?  But I do. Want it. Desperately. I can’t think about anything else. I hate this. All of it. I hate feeling useless. Being helpless. It took me a month to learn to tie my goddamn shoes, did you know that?!” His voice rises, then drops off. “The way he looks at me,” he whispers.  “Pity. Do you have any idea how horrible that is? I can’t take that. I . . . can’t . . .”

_ Longing. _

“And I can’t tell him.  And I can’t stop it. I can’t stop feeling it.  Thinking about it. Fucking dreaming about it. God help me, after everything . . . he’s all I want.  All I’ve ever wanted. So what,” his voice is desperate now, shaking with barely-suppressed emotion, “am I supposed to do?”

He leaves.  Steals T’Challa’s hover bike purely out of spite, tired of charity, not really caring what Okoye will do to him later.  Half-hopes she’ll just skewer him to a wall and leave him to rot. Rides out across the mesa, as far as he can get. The sun sets.  Stars rise, brilliant against the blue-black sky. No moon. He lays back on the bike, hand behind his head, engine housing warm against his back.  Soft ticking as the metal cools. Watches the stars, trying to pick out familiar constellations. Once upon a time he could navigate by them, he remembers that.

_ Italy, 1944.  Hot on the tail of a Hydra cell, bunking down for the night with the rest of the Commandos.  Warm summer night. Too warm for tents, just laying on top of blankets under the stars. Laying head to head, tangle of dark brown hair mingling with towhead blond.  Whispering together like boys, cheek to cheek, pointing out constellations to each other. _

_ Longing. _

His hand drops from behind his head, wanders lower.  Slides under the waistband of his pants.

With long, slow strokes, staring up at the stars, he finally finds some measure of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very vague allusion to EMDR therapy made here.


	5. The End of the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which processing is completed

He returns the bike.

Turns out the lights in the apartment, sleeps all day.

He’s still not speaking to AIDA.

Towards dusk, he starts to dream.

_ Brooklyn, 1921.  Middle of the night.  He’s only four years old.  His mother gets him out of bed. Helps him dress.  Holds his hand as they cross the dark, dusty courtyard and mount rickety wooden stairs to the next apartment.  Why does she take him? Pop drunk in a gutter again somewhere, no one home to care for him? A tired, worried voice greets them at the door, “He’s colicky - but it’s never been this bad.”  A little boy, tiny in the big iron-frame bed by the stove. Coughing violently, and crying from the pain of it. He wants to help. Wants to make the pain stop. Four years old, does the only thing he can think of.  Starts making faces. Dancing, like an organ grinder’s monkey. Too-large blue eyes go even wider. Coughing stops. Laughter. The best sound he’s ever heard. _

_ The dream shifts. _

_ He’s nine years old.  Steve’s eight, with a mouth way too big for his scrawny body.  Children’s voices, shouting. Dusty schoolyard. Clatter of leather-soled shoes. Heavy thunk of a book bag on the ground.  Shouts. “Fight! Fight!” _

_ Later, in Steve’s apartment.  Kitchen. Nursing a swelling eye as Sarah cleans blood off his collar.  Steve’s stewing in the corner, angry that Bucky had to jump in and save him.  Again. _

_ The dream shifts.   _

_ Ten years old.  Kitchen, perched on a stool in his undershirt.  Sarah’s warm hand gentle against the back of his neck.  Hiss of clippers. Haircut. Steve, sitting up in the iron-frame bed, recovering from some latest illness, laughing at him as he squirms.  That laugh. _

_ The dream shifts.  Darkens. _

_ Eleven, now, almost twelve.  Eye swollen shut, blood dripping from a cut under his ear. Tasting iron, biting back tears.  Shouting. A man’s voice next to his bleeding ear. _

_ “Those tears, sissy?  No son of mine gonna cry.  I’ll knock your block right off . . .” _

_ Blows. _

_ His father’s name was James.  Everyone called him Jimmy. That’s how he became Bucky.  Can’t share a nickname, too. _

_ The dream shifts.  Darkens. _

_ Thirteen.  Taste of iron in his mouth.  Fire in his veins. He’s stronger now, faster.  Fists harder. Doesn’t cry now. Lifts his chin defiantly. Takes his beating.  Starts to fight back. _

_ Sixteen.  Fire burning in him all the time now, barely contained.  Scaring him. Around him, soft whispers, the sound of his sisters crying.  Bellowing, agony. The smell of death. It’s cancer, they say. They bury his father in the spring and he can’t bring himself to feel anything but that burning anger.   _

_ Falling. _

_ Full darkness. _

_ One. _

_ Nine. _

_ Seventeen. _

He snaps awake, sits bolt upright, soaked with sweat.  Shivering from head to toe.

“Oh, shit.”

 

_ **** _

 

He lets himself in to the therapist’s office, red leather book in hand.  Black star emblazoned on the cover.

“I know what it means.”

She blinks up at him, surprised.  He hasn’t even sat down yet.

“What?”

The numbers.  The sequence. I figured out what it means.

He flips open to the right page, holds it out.  “I know you can’t read this - I’ll translate. But it starts with the numbers.  They’re backwards. The whole thing is backwards. It’s not “Seventeen, nine, one.  It’s one, nine, seventeen. Nineteen seventeen. The year I was born. This whole thing.  This whole goddamn thing. It was right here the whole time, staring me in the face. The whole story of my life, all of me, right here in black and white, from end to beginning.”

She’s still staring at him, stunned.

“Bucky, slow down.”

But he’s on a roll.  Grabs the buzzing paddles, tucks one under each thigh.  “Lets go. Lets do this.”

“Buck-”

He ignores her completely.  “Freight car. Грузовой вагон.”  He says it cautiously, as if not entirely trusting the words on his tongue.  “I think we’re pretty clear on what that one means. That’s where all this started.”

She’s collected herself by now.  “And what do you see . . .what does it mean to you?”

He’s quiet, watching the scene.  Watching Steve reaching for him, fingers outstretched.  Watches the strut tear away from the side of the train with a horrible shriek.  Watches himself fall, and fall, twisting, into the ravine a thousand feet below.  Just watches, breathing even, heartbeat steady.

“I’m going to die,” he says softly, completely calm.  “But I don’t. I didn’t. I’m still here. I’m OK. I’m going to be OK.”

He takes a deep breath, dives back in.  “One. Один. I’m all alone. No one’s coming.  That was my designation, too. I just remembered that.”  He blinks in surprise, continues, “Experiment one. I’m the only one who made it.  Even the others . . . Later . . . Zemo killed them while they slept. I used to think I was just a machine.  A weapon. Interchangeable and replaceable, like all the others. But . . . I was the only one. Not sure if that makes me special, unique.  Just . . . Individual. Maybe it just makes me human.” He smiles a little at that. 

“Homecoming.  возвращение на родину.  Zola dragged me back to his lair, finished his experiments.  Going back to that base in Siberia, over and over again, until it felt like a sort of home.  Somewhere to go, anyway. Somewhere familiar and predictable. Sitting in that chair. As much as it hurt . . . I knew what it meant.  I knew what it did - what was going to happen. What I was going to lose. And it felt like a blessing not to remember, sometimes. I didn’t always fight it.  But in the end, Steve . . . Remembered. Saw me. Saved me, despite myself. That kid never could run away from a fight.” Smiles again, a slow smile of dawning recognition, relief.

He goes through the whole sequence, one word at a time.  Slow. Thoughtful. Careful, maybe. Hours pass. Neither of them notice.

Outside, the late summer afternoon shadows grow long.

“Rusted.  ржавые.” He sighs, exhausted, almost done.  “Washington. Pierce was done with me. Weapons degrade.  Deteriorate over time. Grow obsolete. Grow old. I’m not sure if I’m going to grow old but . . . I  _ feel _ old.  I’m so tired.  I’m tired of running.  Hiding. I’m tired of everything ending in a fight.  I just want something to be easy. Comfortable. Safe?”  He goes silent for a while. “I found that, here, I think.  Not that it’s always easy. God knows I still pick fights. But at least it feels like a  _ choice _ .  It’s nice.  Choice used to terrify me.  I didn’t know what to do with that.  I didn’t know how to function on my own, without orders.  Now it’s just . . .” He shuts his eyes, sighs deeply, as if he’s been holding it in for a long time.  “Now it’s safe. I’m safe.  _ I’m  _ safe.  I’m  _ safe. _ ”

He says it as if he finally believes it, for the first time.  Opens his eyes, meets her gaze. They sit, regard each other, silently.  Holding the space, together.

“There’s one more,” she says softly at last, breaking the spell.

He nods, swallows hard, looking down at his hand in his lap.  “Longing,” he whispers. “жела . . .” His voice breaks. “Why that?  Why would they use that? How would they even . . . Oh.” He stops. Head comes up.  “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Under torture,” he says levely, coolly, “First, you cry out for your mother.  Then, maybe God. Pray for salvation. But that line’s dead, been disconnected for years.  No one’s answering. At the end, at the point you break, right before you die.” He sighs, far away, voice dropping, barely above a whisper.  “Right at the end. You scream - you beg - for the only person you ever wanted to spend eternity with. That’s how they knew.”

He tries one more time.  “жела . . . жела . . .” He can’t get it out.  Shakes his head, drops his gaze, straining for words.

“I . . . can’t . . .I’m still scared of it.”

They’re silent for a long time.

“Maybe,” she says gently, “I’m not the right person to process that one.”

He nods miserably.  “I know.”

“Talk to him,” she says softly.

He nods again, eyes distant.  After a while, he unfolds from the couch, stands, crosses to his therapist, extends his hand.  When she takes it, he pulls her into a gentle hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers against her shoulder.

“Thank  _ you, _ ” she whispers back.

 

****

 

He leaves the book behind, and goes to find Shuri.  She’s in the lab.

“Ok, lets do it.”

Her jaw drops.  “Are you - you’re sure?  Serious?”

He nods.  “Yeah. I’m sure.  Finally.”

She’s nodding back, always excited for a new challenge.  “Ok. Yeah. OK! When?”

He shrugs, “My schedule’s not exactly packed.”

She rolls her eyes at him, pursing her lips. “OK.  I’ll talk to the surgeon. The techs. It’s a lot of wires to hold, I’m going to need a couple sets of hands . . .oh, sorry.  OK. Three days. Morning. Gonna be a long day. No eating for twenty-four hours before. I don’t want you to survive brain surgery and still asphyxiate on my table.” 

 

****

 

He goes back to the apartment.   _ His _ apartment.  

“Hey, AIDA?  You there?”

Chime.

“Look, I’m . . . I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve any of . . . what I said.  You’ve been an amazing help in all of this. I don’t how I would have done it without you.”

Tinkling chimes, like a bubbling brook.

“I need a favor.  I need you to find Steve.”

 

****

 

He’s sitting on a stool, leaning back against the counter, gazing out at the the last rays of setting sun streaking the sky sun over Brooklyn.  Big band music playing very softly in the background. Finger of whiskey in a glass by his elbow. He’s enjoying the smell more than the taste, hasn’t really had a drink in years now but under the circumstances it seems like the right thing to do.

T minus 12 hours.

The door chimes.

“Captain Rogers,” AIDA announces.

“It’s open, c’mon in,” he calls.

Nothing happens.

“AIDA, open the door.”

The door slides open with its soft, familiar hiss.

Still nothing.  Steve is standing outside the door at parade rest, hands behind his back.  Bucky stands up, walks to the door. They stare at each other across the threshold, frozen.  Bucky’s heart is in his throat. He swallows hard.

“C’mon, don’t just stand in the hallway.  Come in.”

“Wasn’t sure if I was welcome,” Steve says, a little coldly, stepping around him.  But his expression is more worried than angry, as if he’s not exactly sure why he’s there but he’s expecting the worst.

_ What _ , Bucky wonders,  _ would be the worst? _

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says instead, diving for refuge behind the familiar shield of sarcasm.  “You’re my best friend. Of course you’re welcome.”

“Not always,” Steve points out, walking around the counter to admire the view out the window screens.

Bucky sighs.  Maybe sarcasm isn’t the best approach this time.  “OK, I appreciate it that you knocked. And I’m sorry I yelled at you.  I was out of line.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, still not quite over it, still not looking at him.  “You were.”

Bucky folds his arm across his chest, resting his hand on his left shoulder, leaning a hip against the counter.

“Steve . . .” He murmurs.

Steve finally looks at him.  His expression slowly softens.  “AIDA called me. I came as fast as I could.  I wasn’t sure what to think. I was afraid something . . . terrible . . . might have happened.”

Bucky shakes his head, drawls,“Nah.  Only potentially terrible. Sorry to worry you.”

Steve rolls his eyes, finally surrendering.  “Ok Mr. Melodramatic.”

Bucky forces a laugh to hide his nervousness, spreads his hand in an open gesture.  “Hey, last night on earth and all . . .”

_ Longing. _

“I’m glad you called,” Steve says at last.  “I wasn’t sure you’d want me here.”

Bucky bites his bottom lip uncertainly.

_ Longing. _

“Look,” he says hesitantly, pivoting against the counter to face Steve square on.  “There is . . . It’s just . . .”

_ Longing. _

_ Pounding in his ears. _

_ Longing. _

_ “ _ Truth is, Stevie, I’m scared shitless.  I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if this is going to work.  I don’t know if I’m going to wake up at all, or wake up and have to start all over again, or . . . what.  I’m scared, and I don’t want to do this without you.”

Steve takes a step toward him, extending a hand.

“Aw, Buck . . .”

Bucky grabs his hand, moving it up to rest on his left shoulder.  Reaches out with his own hand, grips Steve’s shoulder. Ducks his head a little.  Steve’s taller than he is now, so he has to look up through dark, tangled and overgrown bangs to maintain eye contact.  He really wants to look away. Forces himself not to.

_ Longing.   _

_ Heart pounding in his ears. _

_ Oh fuck it. _

“No matter what,” he says, searching for the words, “there’s something else I really need you to know.  You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to say anything. But if I don’t get this out, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”  He takes a deep breath, fighting to keep his throat from closing over the words. Licks suddenly dry lips. It finally comes out in a rush.  

“Steve, I love you.  I’ve loved you since the minute I met you.  I know that’s . . . terrible. I’m not . . . I mean, I’m still kind of a mess.  There are still things I don’t remember, maybe I’ll never remember. And the things I do remember, they’re not always good and I don’t always know how I’m supposed to feel about them.  I’m working on it. But one thing I know- I’m absolutely certain of. I love you, more than anything. I’m yours, if you’ll have me, until the end of the line.”

Steve doesn’t answer, just tightens his grip on Bucky’s shoulder.  Drags him close, bodies pressed together.

_ Blond bangs falling over a pale forehead. _

_ Sparkling blue eyes, clear as a summer day. _

_ Red lips. _

_ Sweet smell of whiskey. _

_ All he’d have to do is lift his head . . . _

_. . . He does. _

“Until the end of the line,” Steve whispers as their mouths meet.

 

_ Fin. _


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> желание.

Four weeks post-op.

 

Bucky wakes to sunrise over Brooklyn.  There’s nothing to remember. He gets to do it every day.

_ Warm . . . _

Steve is curled up next to him, one arm draped around his waist.  Bucky slides carefully out of the bed, trying not to wake him.

Steve murmurs in sleepy protest and Bucky leans over to brush his blond bangs aside, giving him a gentle kiss on the temple.

He showers, enjoying the warm tingling sensation of the hot water pinging off his vibranium and gold left arm.

Shaves, mostly, tilting his chin jauntily at his reflection in the mirror.

Pushes his hair back with one hand.  Surgery left him looking like the victim of a bad case of mange, so Steve gave him a haircut in the kitchen.  Steve is still just about the only person on earth he would trust with sharp scissors that close to his throat.  It’s growing out now, after four weeks, tickling the tops of his ears, flopping over his forehead. He’s still trying to decide whether to let it grow long again or not.  Just choosing feels like an act of defiance. Making a final face at himself in the mirror, he gets dressed and reports to the medical wing one last time. Sits down on the old, familiar couch, stretching his legs out, relaxed.

“Longing.  желание.”

“What do you see?”

He stares off into the distance.  

_ Side by side on the metal-frame bed in the kitchen, heads bent close, legs tangled together, doing homework whenever Steve was too sick to go to school. _

_ Up all night, whispering together, Steve tucked in on the cushions from the couch, dragged next to his bed. _

_ Running, book bag banging against his back, leaping headlong into yet another fray to save his stupid best friend. _

_ Laying on their backs on the roof soaking up the summer sun, sharing a stolen cigarette.  Swearing when hot ash falls on his chest. Sound of Steve’s laughter. _

_ Waking up in a dank bunker, damp walls, green light.  Terror. Steve’s worried face hovering over him. It doesn’t look like the Steve he left behind in New York, but he’d know that expression, that voice, anywhere, and he’s not scared anymore. _

_ “Bucky?” _

_ Saying his name. _

_ “Bucky?” _

_ Saving him. _

_ “St-Steve?” _

_ Tearing into battle shoulder to shoulder with that same stupid kid from Brooklyn, pistol drawn, rifle banging against his back, back into the fray. _

_ Flash forward years.  Same scared eyes, tentative voice.  Cutting through the void of what he has become, saving him.  Reminding him who he is. What matters. How to feel again. Bringing him home. _

_ Sparkling blue eyes, telling stories.  Swapping lies.  _

_ Steve’s smile lighting up the room.  Laughter chasing away the last of the ghosts. _

_ Falling asleep, tangled together, Steve’s head on his shoulder, hand resting on his chest.  Warm breath against his neck. _

_ Safe. _

He opens his eyes, lets out a long breath.

“What does it mean to you?”

_ Longing.  _  It’s barely a whisper and then it’s gone with the breeze, leaving deep silence and, at long last, peace.

“Nothing,” He says quietly.  “It doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Steve’s egg preference is actually comic book canon. I’m stupidly proud of getting that right.


End file.
